


String Quartet No. 14

by iphigenias



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 11:50:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5927296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iphigenias/pseuds/iphigenias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nix said, “I don’t know what I’d do without you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	String Quartet No. 14

**Author's Note:**

> this is for marnie, who moved away for uni today and i still can't quite believe she's gone. 
> 
> i don't know anything about a) american high school b) track teams c) smoking and d) anything, really. sorry about that. fic title is from beethoven's string quartet no. 14 in c# minor, which is actually the movement played in why we fight because i love dying and being dead. based off the hbo portrayals of easy company.
> 
> warnings for underage smoking, drinking, one reference to drug use, depression.

“You know, sometimes I think you do that just to spite me.”

Nix opens his eyes against the harsh glare of the sun and squints at Dick as his friend flops down onto the grass beside him. Nix obligingly stubs his cigarette in the dirt, ignoring the pointed look Dick gives him and closing his eyes behind his sunglasses once again.

“They’re no good for you, Nix,” Dick says in a soft voice, which somehow makes the admonishment even worse.

“And when have I ever done anything that was good for me, huh?” Nix tries to make it come out jokingly, but Dick has known him for years and knows when something’s cut a little too close to the bone.

“Well, at least you have the good sense to not smoke around an asthmatic,” Dick says lightly, offering Nix an out which he gratefully takes. “After that time in eighth grade, anyway.”

Nix tries to ignore the image that conjures up: the memory of him crouching over Dick as the latter coughed and gasped into the dewy grass behind the bleachers, as Nix scrambled around in his bag for Dick’s puffer and time seemed to stretch and elongate around him, making his hands move slow like molasses. For Dick, the memory is an amusing one—stupid Nix, didn’t even realise that cigarettes and asthma don’t really go together. But for Nix, it’s more like a nightmare—a casual reminder that for all that Dick insists otherwise, Nix doesn’t deserve one iota of his friendship, and is puzzled and guilty anew every day when Dick sits with him at lunchtime instead of with one of his other friends.

Whenever Nix tells Dick this, whenever he asks Dick why, his friend will simply tilt his head to the side as if he doesn’t understand the question and say: “You’re my best friend, Nix. Where else would I be?” It always gives Nix a funny feeling in his chest, but he tells himself that it’s just the smokes. He’s been telling himself that a lot lately.

“Missed you in APUSH,” Dick says, dragging Nix’s attention back to the present. “It’s always worse when you’re not there. Sobel was being a dick again and all I could think about is what you would’ve said if you’d been there.”

“Yeah, well.” Nix is aching for a cigarette, or maybe a drink. Probably both. He doesn’t want to think about APUSH, or why he skipped it today. Doesn’t want to think about what sitting right behind Dick does to him, watching the small errant curl at the base of his neck when he’s supposed to be drawing up a timeline of the Civil War. Most days Nix can take it—most days he even looks forward to the chance to stare at Dick unopposed, because outside of class Dick is too observant not to notice, but too shy to say anything about it, and the thought of Dick floundering, wondering what was wrong with his best friend, makes Nix’s insides curl.

“Didn’t feel like taking Sobel’s bullshit today,” is what he says at last, after a too-long pause. Nix can feel Dick looking at him, and it aches, knowing that all he needs to do is turn his head and open his eyes to see Dick watching him with that careful, measured expression he always gets when he looks at Nix long enough—like he’s calculating something, or trying to figure something out. Nix hears Dick sigh, and squeezes his eyes tightly shut behind his Ray-Bans.

They don’t say much else for the rest of the break, which isn’t unusual for them. Dick is the one person Nix has ever felt wholly comfortable around, the only person with whom he’s never felt the need to impress like his daddy always told him to do. But even that is crumbling away—Nix knows he’s a bad friend, knows that it’s not just the cigarettes or the skipping classes but something else, something deeper and more intrinsic, like it’s in his genetic makeup to fuck things up because that’s how he was born, how he was made. Dick’s chromosomes are perfect, flawless if you looked at them from under a microscope, and Nix doesn’t know how he’s meant to compete with something like that. How Dick can even stand Nix hanging around him like a bad smell he can’t quite get rid of.

There are a lot of things Nix loathes his father for, but being stripped of his self-worth and finally realising that he’ll never be good enough is not one of them.

 

*

 

When they met, Nix was seven and Dick was eight and the latter had just moved here from a dairy farm in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. Nix had never met anyone from a farm before. At recess that first day Nix had marched right up to the new kid and asked if they could be friends. Dick had looked at him shyly and said _yeah, okay. I’d like that._ When Nix got home from school that afternoon, he felt like floating. He told his mother about this new friend he’d made and she said _hmm, yes, that’s nice dear._ He told his daddy at dinner that night and he said _a farm boy, eh? Best not to mix with those sorts, Lewis._

The next day at school Nix saw Dick and thought that he didn’t look like a farm boy at all. If anything, he was a pretty farm boy, with hair the colour of autumn leaves and skin like the marble on their staircase at home. _Dads don’t know everything_ , Nix had decided, and swapped seats with Faye Tanner in class that day so he could sit next to Dick for the rest of the year.

 

*

 

When Nix gets home from school that day he heads straight for his father’s liquor cabinet. Stanhope Nixon has long given up trying to turn his son into the toast of society, so these days he rarely keeps the alcohol locked up. Nix thinks that sometimes his dad cares more about the Vat-69 disappearing than where it’s disappearing to.

He grabs a bottle and takes it to his room, locking the door behind him and dropping to the floor beside the bed, head falling back to rest against the art deco wallpaper. He’s not meant to smoke in his room but he does it anyway, fingers shaking slightly as he lights up the end and breathes in the familiar aroma. He thinks of Dick at lunchtime today, the look he must’ve been giving Nix when his eyes were closed. _They’re no good for you,_ he hears Dick say in his head, and takes another long drag on the cigarette.

Hey, at least it’s not weed. Nix had tried that once, but hated the way it made him feel—and he hated the way Dick had looked at him after, not with disgust or disappointment but something like acceptance, like Nix could do all the bad things in the world and Dick would stick by him anyway. He hates that. Sometimes Nix used to think that if he screwed up enough, Dick would clear off for good and find someone who actually deserved being friends with him. Who was good enough. But no matter how many times Dick had to clean Nix up after a bad night, how many puffs of his inhaler he had to take because the stench of tobacco clung so strongly—no matter what Nix did, Dick wouldn’t leave his side. It’s comforting in a way to know that Dick will always be there for him, except at the same time it’s not because Nix carries around guilt like a coat, pockets weighted down and making his shoulders hunch over with the effort or staying upright.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Nix told Dick one night, stone-cold sober, as he slept on the floor in the Winters’ two-bedroom house during Christmas break of sophomore year. It was cold on the floor, and draughty, but Mrs Winters had heaped Nix with an armful of blankets from _back home on the farm_ and when Nix snuggled into them, he imagined he could smell it, the mown grass and log cabin walls and a fire, warm and comforting, crackling away in the hearth. It made him feel soft and safe like he never felt when he was at home in his queen sized bed and ducted heating, but it made him feel vulnerable too, cut to the quick, and so when Dick had turned out the light and rolled on his side towards Nix, his pale face illuminated by only a sliver of star light coming in through the blinds, Nix had said “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” and Dick had smiled. Reached a hand out from under the covers into the freezing winter air and clasped two of Nix’s fingers, just two because they were all he could reach.

Sometimes, when the weather’s cold enough, Nix can still feel that phantom touch and he clings to it, desperately, shamefully. He thinks of it now, though winter has long given way to spring, and wonders if Dick even realised what he was doing, that night. If he realised that in reaching out to Nix he was going somewhere where there was no coming back from, no forgetting. Friends don’t hold hands with friends when the moon is a quarter overhead and the stars are unusually bright in a clear sky—except maybe they do, in Pennsylvania, and maybe it was nothing, and maybe Nix should stop thinking about it except he can’t, won’t, and his cigarette has been smoked down to a stub and burns those same fingers Dick held and Nix hisses at the pain but still feels that phantom touch like a benediction, like a psalm.

 

*

 

Nix goes to APUSH the next day and stares at the back of Dick’s head like always. Dick’s wearing a collared shirt and a sweater despite the mild heat and the back of his neck is a dusky pink, not red like his hair but softer, gentler. He has five freckles like a constellation in the space between his hairline and his collar, and Nix knows that if he turned his head to the side there would be three more in a little v behind his left ear. Nix wonders what it would be like to trace that victory sign, wonders if Dick would shiver at the contact or give Nix one of those unamused glances and ask _what on earth are you doing, Lew?_

Dick’s the only one who calls him that. His parents call him Lewis and everyone at school calls him Nix but Dick calls him Lew and somehow it’s more than just a nickname. It’s a swoop of a syllable that’s prettier that Nix and softer than Lewis and coming from Dick it’s even prettier and softer and Nix would never tell this to anyone but he thinks about pressing his lips to Dick’s cheekbone and feeling the flutter of eyelashes against his skin and hearing _Lew_ being released in a soft gust of air and it’s enough to make him squeeze his eyes shut tight and force himself to remember that Dick doesn’t feel that way about him and won’t ever feel that way because Dick isn’t stupid, he knows that he can do better than Nix and he will, he will, and Nix will be sitting there with his eyes screwed tight as Dick marries a girl just as perfect as he is under a clear and star lit sky.

After class Dick has English and Nix has Econ and they walk along the corridor together, close enough to touch. “You okay?” Dick asks, because he’s like that, and Nix swallows and summons a smile and says, “Yes, fine.” Dick frowns but they’ve reached his classroom door and Nix continues on down the hall towards his own. He can feel Dick’s eyes on him as he walks, back straight, and wonders how many freckles he has on the back of his neck and if Dick could tell him by memory.

 

*

 

Dick has track at lunchtime today and Nix sits on the bleachers to watch. Dick sees him from the field and smiles, a real big and blinding smile that makes Nix’s toes curl. One of his teammates, a gap-toothed kid called Harry who hangs out with Dick and Nix sometimes when he’s not off playing kissy-face with his girlfriend, says something to Dick that Nix can’t make out and then Dick is blushing, turning a real tomato shade of red and won’t meet Nix’s eyes and Nix wonders what Harry said.

Despite being asthmatic, Dick can really run, and Nix loves watching his long loping strides around the track, his shins glistening under the sunlight. His sneakers are purple with white laces and Nix loves the brightness of them, shiny and fresh against the shocking white of Dick’s socks. He runs lap after lap and Nix gets almost dizzy watching him, outpacing the rest of his teammates by at least ten yards, stopping every now and then for a puff of the inhaler he keeps in his pocket. The coach wanders away after a while and the team splits up, most heading to the middle of the field to do warm-down stretches. Dick jogs over to the bleachers and takes the stairs two at a time until he reaches Nix’s row and slides along it.

“Hey,” he smiles, stealing Nix’s breath away. “You’re not smoking.”

“What?”

Dick smiles again, ducking his head. “You usually smoke when you’re out here. I see you when I’m running. But you didn’t today.”

“Yeah, well,” Nix manages, wondering what else Dick sees that he doesn’t talk about. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Too late for that,” Dick laughs, lying down on the cool metal with his head only inches away from Nix’s lap. “If you’re not too careful I’ll con you into joining the track team. You’re here for all our practices, anyway.”

“I like the view,” Nix says defensively, and instantly wishes he could take the words back as he watches Dick’s eyebrows climb up high on his forehead.

“Oh yeah?” Dick asks, voice soft, and it would be so easy to lie in that moment, to brush off what he meant and what he knows Dick knows he meant, except Dick is looking at him carefully, and from this angle he’s almost upside-down and yet Nix can’t do it, can’t do the one thing he’s good at because his best friend who he’s in love with is looking at him like his answer is going to be the most important thing in the world and Nix feels like that too, feels like this moment is somehow of singular importance amongst all the other moments of their lives.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment, just as softly, and Dick is still looking at him like that and Nix really needs a cigarette right about now. “You should get changed,” he says unsteadily, glancing away towards the team stretching on the field. “You’ll be late for class if you leave it too long.”

There’s a pause. “Okay,” Dick says quietly, and Nix feels the movement as he sits up. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Nix doesn’t say anything, just watches as Dick lopes down the bleachers and, when he’s far enough away not to see, lights up a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and tries to pretend his hands aren’t shaking.

 

*

 

Nix skips the next two APUSH classes even though he knows Sobel is going to give him shit for it, and he makes himself scarce at lunchtime too, because he can’t handle seeing Dick right now. He’s smoking more than ever and it’s starting to make him feel really sick, like whenever he picks up a cigarette he feels like he’s going to throw up. It’s probably a sign that he should stop but Nix needs something to do with his hands or he knows he’ll bite down his fingernails until they bleed.

It’s been three days and a weekend since the bleachers and Nix finally runs into Dick outside of his Econ class on his way to the bathrooms for a smoke. With a sinking feeling in his chest Nix realises that they have APUSH now, and Dick is probably here to make sure Nix goes to class and Nix loves Dick, he really does, but he’s such a goddamned saint all the time and it really grates on Nix’s nerves.

“I’m not going to class,” he says flatly, avoiding Dick’s eye and fidgeting. To his surprise, Dick just stays silent for a moment before answering, “Okay,” and walking in the opposite direction than APUSH. Nix stares after him for a confused few seconds before following.

“What are you doing?” he hisses as they pass through a crush of students headed the other way. “Dick, you never skip class!”

“I got Harry to cover for us.” He glances over his shoulder and meets Nix’s gaze. “Both of us.”

“Harry?” Nix repeats dumbly, even though he knows who Dick means. “Dick, what are we doing, we can’t just—” They’ve reached the track where Dick’s team practices and for once it’s empty. Gym class must be doing theory this period, Nix thinks absently, eyes still trained on Dick who’s stopped walking and is looking at Nix expectantly.

“We,” he says, grinning, “are going for a run.”

“No way.” The words are out of Nix’s mouth before he even thinks about them. “I don’t _run_ , Dick. Especially not in these.” He gestures to his jeans and scuffed boots, but Dick just shrugs him off.

“There’s spare PT gear in the locker rooms, and I brought an extra pair of sneakers.” Dick reaches into his bag and hands Nix the purple sneakers with the white laces, the new ones he’d got for his birthday and had been training in ever since. Only now does Nix realise that Dick is already in his running clothes, and is wearing his old pair of scuffed white trainers with the orange soles. Nix just takes the new ones dumbly and follows Dick over to the changing rooms.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he grumbles, but he does it anyway because Dick asked him to and no matter how hard he might try he just can’t say no to Dick. He emerges a few minutes later in the gear, tugging at the dark shorts that won’t stop riding up the inside of his thighs as he walks. “I look appalling,” he tells Dick, who’s clearly trying not to smile.

“You look great,” is what he says, and Nix has to look away. “We’ll go nice and slow, okay?”

“Sure,” Nix says under his breath, and starts off after Dick. He really hates running, hates the way it makes him go red in the face and sweaty all over, which is really not the look he’d been going for today—except, except this? Running beside Dick and huffing out laughter at the absurdity of it, feeling the burn in his calves and the stitch tying a knot in his stomach—it feels almost like the release of a cigarette, of a case of Vat-69, with all of the freedom and none of the side-effects. Nix runs, and runs, and thinks he finally understands why Dick loves it so much, the rush of the wind speeding past you and the steady beat of your feet against the track. Nix glances over at Dick and feels a jolt as he realises that Dick is already looking at him, _looking_ looking, and maybe he’s ruddy in the face and his hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat but he is still unerringly, achingly beautiful, and Nix can’t take it any more.

He slows to a stop, heaving out huge gusts of air and feeling like maybe he’s going to throw up, except there’s a sense of accomplishment in there too, like he’s achieved something being here with Dick, lit a flame inside of himself than not even Stanhope can extinguish.

“So?” Dick says breathily, taking a puff of his inhaler and flopping down onto the grass beside the track. Nix follows him, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu and he lies down, facing the sun.

“You know I hate to admit you’re right,” he says, and Dick laughs, and that sets Nix off too and it’s the middle of the day, they’re supposed to be in class, but Nix couldn’t imagine being anywhere but here, lying in the dewy grass with the sweat cooling on his skin and Dick’s favourite sneakers on his feet and their fingertips only inches apart.

“So you enjoyed it?” Dick asks, turning on his side to face Nix and Nix does the same. They’re impossibly close.

“I’m not gonna be joining the track team any time soon,” Nix warns, but he’s smiling. “But yeah. I enjoyed it, Dick.” The edge of that last word turns soft, almost like a caress, and Nix watches as Dick swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Nix decides to be brave. “View was better up close, too,” is what he says, softly, gently, and Dick is looking at him in a way that almost makes him want to cry with the intensity of it, the vulnerability.

“Yeah?” he says, voice barely above a whisper, and this time it’s Nix who reaches out with his hand and grasps two of Dick’s fingers in his own not because they’re all he can reach but because they’re all he needs.

“Yeah,” Nix says, smiling and knocking their knees together, and Dick is looking at him like he’s the sun and Nix doesn’t mind so much, not anymore, because he wants what he wants and Dick wants what he wants and what he may or may not deserve doesn’t even matter because Dick is looking at him like that and Nix wants to break apart from his smile.

Instead, he leans forward, grass brushing across his cheek, and kisses Dick like he’s always wanted to, and oh, it feels like coming home.


End file.
